Viewpoints
by LiquoriceLaw
Summary: Snippy and Pilot are on a two-man mission. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Reconnaissance

Pilot was bored.

He looked up to where Snippy crouched against the broken slab of concrete, back turned, watching the street up ahead through the scope of his rifle. Pilot hated being sent on missions with Snippy. All he ever did was boss you around. "Pilot, don't touch that, it's toxic." "Get down from there Pilot, it's not safe." "Pilot, call it off! Pilot! IT'S EATING MY LEG!" He smiled fondly remembering this last adventure. There was at least a bit of fun when he could bring Photoshop.

Today it had been nothing but "Be quiet, Pilot!" for the last half-hour.

He had occupied himself by drawing with a gloved finger in the dust. He had already drawn Photoshop and some of her worm friends, and a boat and a tree and a crashed car and an aeroplane soaring high above… and standing on a hill with the sun rising behind him was the Captain, watching over his scribbly and oddly-proportioned domain. Now he was adding more detail to the Captain's uniform, tracing a tiny star above the peak of his hat. He began to hum softly.

"Pilot, _shhhh!_" at once Snippy turned his head to silence him. Pilot glared at him, then returned to his drawing. He drew Snippy, goggle lids turned up in anguish as he disappeared into the jaws of the biggest worm. He added some limbs sticking out of the creature's mouth at random angles for emphasis.

Snippy, meanwhile, was thinking.

There were two corpses standing at the far end of the street. Corpses in the sense that they were dead – well, mostly dead – but these particular corpses did not seem to have been informed of this fact and they had an aggravating habit of walking around.

They were old ANNET users, brains extinguished just like everyone else when the bombs fell. But something had, for want of a better word, reanimated them, provided a small electrical charge which had jolted the little blue headbands – and by extension, the neurons to which they were connected- back to life. The power plants had fallen into disrepair along with the whole infrastructure of the city but Gromov theorised that if these individuals had fallen out in the open, a lightning storm could have provided the necessary power.

How horror-movie could you get?

The devices retained only vestiges of their former programming, compelling their hosts (now functionally brain-dead) to buy, buy, buy in a vain attempt to fill the yawning emptiness of a futile, meaningless existence under the Good Directorate's crushing consumerist regime. They wandered over the city, unsleeping, not allowing even their lifeless state to interfere with their search.

There was probably a message in that somewhere.

Right now, Snippy was not concerned with the philosophy of the situation. He was thinking about survival. A few close encounters – close in every sense of the word – had taught him that they were not amicable to other life forms; he wasn't sure what the imperative was that drove them to pursue, to hunt, to grasp, but somehow it made sense. Even while more-alive, those connected to the ANNET system - which included, eventually, everyone - had this inexplicable wish to assimilate you, plug you into the grid, watch your every thought, keep you where they could manage you and millions of other citizens without the hassle of personal contact.

He recalled the meetings he had had when they first brought the system online and found that it did not work on him – it hadn't surprised him, things always seemed to find a way to go wrong where he was concerned, but he hadn't realised that it would be such a big _thing._ There had followed endless scans, neuropsychiatry, medical exams and probing questions about cranial trauma suffered during childhood. There was none; the scans all came up normal and the evidence suggested his brain was perfectly healthy, but that annoyed them all the more. They seemed determined to find some defect so they could "fix" him or draw a line under him for good. They were increasingly angry not just at the situation but at him, as though he were expecting special treatment, being purposefully difficult. They proposed exploratory surgery; he refused. And so he remained in a dead-end job, perpetually tired and unable to afford sleep, with bizarre and terrible recurring nightmares and constant headaches from the transmission towers. And even now they were still after him, still reaching out for him to take him into their loving dead hands and plug him into their network. He had no desire to find out what would happen if they succeeded.

Beside him Pilot had begun to murmur as he drew in the dust. "Pilot, _shhhh!_" Immediately Snippy regretted his outburst, realising he had made far more noise than Pilot with his gentle crooning. Why the hell did people use "shhh" to mean "be quiet"? Sibilants are the loudest noises there are. The aviator gave him a look filled with hate before returning to his scrawling.

He considered his options again. Two wasn't a problem. He could easily take them out from here; what he was worried about was the noise. Deeply devoted to the concept of social contact, presumably terrified of being left alone with their non-thoughts for even a few minutes, and lacking a signal strong enough to carry great distances they always travelled in groups, and the report from his rifle was sure to attract more. These others would be nearby and Snippy didn't want to risk choosing the wrong street to get out of the area; there were too many hiding places and a seemingly deserted street could easily become a death-trap with the makings of an instant horde emerging from ruined doorways and lying in wait behind piles of debris.

But he was running out of time to wait and discern the best escape route. If approached from behind they would be in plain sight. And he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep Pilot quiet.

* * *

><p><strong>This was the result of something I tried to write from Pilot's perspective, but it ended up jumping around a lot, hence the astonishingly lazy title. Exciting adventures to come. Well, mildly interesting adventures, anyway. <strong>

**And I know that's a very - let's say dubious, for the sake of the rating - explanation of the ANNET-zombies, and that it makes no sense whatsoever, but I wanted something other than mutants. Everything's better with zombies! But you can pretend they're mutants if you have some kind of mutant predilection. I'm not going to judge you. **

**Out loud.**


	2. Reinforcements

The engineer grumbled as he traversed the city. God, he hated this place.

The towering skyscrapers which once blazed with light had long been dark; the streets were devoid of traffic. The city which had once represented to him the pinnacle of man's mastery over nature, his ability to shape the world to his will, was in ruins. It was like a personal hell, made just for him and generously garnished with irony; a world too broken to fix. Worse, a world broken by his creations, though _not_, he thought emphatically, thinking of the hat-wearing, mug-wielding, straw-obsessed maniac who now ordered him around, by him.

He avoided field trips wherever possible, preferring not to look at the desolate remnants of civilization, and definitely to avoid the various monstrosities which now marauded at their leisure. He would rather stay put and work on salvaging the bits of radio or the more basic computer parts his crewmates brought back; at least the Captain's inane schemes gave him something to do, something that allowed him, on a good day, for a moment, to forget that the world had ended and things would never go back to the way they were before – once in a while he could lose himself in a bit of circuitry and feel almost happy. But the other two had been gone a few hours longer than expected and finally the Captain had decided it was time to send a search party. So he had been sent out by the crazy idiot to find the morally-superior idiot and the idiot-idiot. What wonderful quest, as the former would say.

He kicked a bit of brick and scowled. They could be anywhere in the city! This was pointless. The really annoying part was that if Seven only deigned to look for them himself he'd be bound to trip over them immediately. Alexander never had figured out how that worked. His other great regret…

He stopped when he noticed a familiar black-and-white pattern crouching behind a hunk of concrete, presumably sniping at some mutated quarry.

"Hey, Charles." Mission accomplished. That wasn't so hard. He didn't see what all the fuss was about. He noticed Pilot was there too._ Wow, I'm good at this._ He hadn't noticed the aviator before because he was being uncharacteristically quiet. He looked as if he wanted to get up or say something, but the marksman gripped his shoulder with a warning glare.

The engineer felt the beginnings of uncertainty.

"What's going - " he noted the sniper's urgent look, his flapping hand gestures.

He turned, following the direction of the rifle, and saw its target.

"… on." He dropped down, his back pressed against a burnt-out car.

Looking across to the sniper, he jerked his thumb back towards the distant figures then made a V-shape, pointing his middle and index finger at his eyes before pointing to himself, head tilted to suggest a question.

The sniper turned his palms up and shrugged. He looked back into his sights. After a few tense seconds he slowly shook his head.

The engineer exhaled. He made a pistol-shape with his hand and mimed the recoil from a shot, again giving the questioning look.

The sniper raised his outspread hands to cup his ears and vibrated them. He simulated counting on his fingers, then scooped his hands inwards in a beckoning gesture.

Snippy couldn't tell if the engineer had understood this last signal but at least he was keeping quiet. So was Pilot, mercifully – but that couldn't last long. Now there was another person he needed to get out of there unseen… keeping Pilot out of trouble was hard enough. This wasn't going to be easy. But he was out of time. He needed to make a plan, now. They could –

Pilot was feeling increasingly restless. He didn't take orders from Snippy. He was Captain's minion. But Snippy said he was in charge of the mission so disobeying him meant disobeying Captain. And that staying very still and very quiet behind this rock was instrumental to the mission. But Snippy told so many lies… it all got a bit confusing sometimes. Only one thing was certain; he would never disobey his Captain. Perhaps it was best not to get up and take the risk that Snippy was telling the truth.

But… if the shoe _was _lying, and hiding behind this rock was just one of those strange behaviours he sometimes exhibited, saying things like "- just want a _moment_ of peace, could you leave me alone for _five minutes_" or "_Bloody hell!_ How long have you been there? I told you to stop watching me sleep!" or "No, I don't want to swordfight! I don't – stop it! OW!" or "I'M NOT GIVING YOU A PIGGYBACK RIDE GET OFF ME", then he was disobeying Captain by not finishing the mission. And now Engie was here! Engie barely ever left headquarters, not if he could help it. Had Captain sent him to find them? Were they taking too long? Snippy wouldn't even let him ask, the slug. Maybe he should –

The engineer tried to stay calm. If shooting wasn't an option then they would just have to stay out of sight and go quietly. The sniper seemed to be keeping Pilot in check, for once, but – hell, which way was back? He looked at the way he had come and realised he didn't know where they were. He had been too busy with his internal grievances to pay attention to where he was walking and had strayed into an unknown part of the city. _Stupid_, he cursed himself mentally. Raising his head tentatively above the rusted door of the car he could make out a landmark he recognised. If he could just get to that tower block he would know the way. But the road was blocked by those… _things._ Perhaps they would -

Three lines of thought were interrupted at the same time as footsteps rang out behind them.

"MINIONS! I FOUND YOU. CAPTAIN WINS ZEE GAME!" He marched boldly down the street, careless of the noise he was making and the ease with which he could be seen. When his subordinates remained crouched and silent he waved impatiently to attract their attention. Honestly, were they deaf? "CEASE YOUR TOMFOOLERY. STAND TO ATTENTION!"

Pilot jumped up and saluted. The engineer stared in dismay. Snippy covered his face with his hand.

He had been doing that a lot lately.

**Another day, another chapter! I think I had Engie being a little slow on the uptake in this chapter which I know is OOC. My talking-through-my-hat justification is that he's not used to combat/stealth situations. The actual reason is that I thought it was funny. As ever, let me know if you see anything you think is uncharacteristic or anything else that bothers you. Or anything you liked, for that matter. My ego will thank you. **

**Are you all psyched for the next chapter? I am. It has more zombies. Spoilers, I guess.**


	3. Represented enemy

Such a big city. So few signals.

Once this had been a hub of electronic exchange, currents of information coursing through the air 24/7. Millions of minds. Billions of thoughts. Now almost all were gone.

They roamed the city, looking for new minds. They were empty, lost, a brain seeking more neurons. They needed signal.

Rocks, dust, ash. Charred metal. Barren earth. Signal? They had crowded hopefully around the little flickering electrical impulse. Just a dying battery, still beating its life force into a small music player. Bleeding out. They continued their search.

And now, noises at the end of the street. And when they went to investigate… signals. Three of them. Strong, moving – alive. Wordlessly, with one mind, they went to greet the new signal-sources, to bring them into the network, to bring them home.

There was another being with them, one that had the power to stop signals. The device in his arms made a fearsome volley of noise and one, two, three of their number, those at the head of the converging ranks, fell, their signals winking out. But the noise would alert more. They concentrated on calling to their kin, summoning them to this street, to these new signals. They would have to be careful with the signal-killer. He was… odd. Shaped like the others, like themselves, human, surely, but they couldn't read his signal. Perhaps he was broken? He seemed confused and destructive. But they could calm him, show him the perfection of the network, make him one of their own. They would fix him.

They had reached the group now. None had made it to the defective one unscathed but there were too many for him to stop them all. One of them drew near the closest of the group.

As the thing that was once human bore down on the little green-eyed man it could detect his neural activity through its headset, so vibrant, pulsing with life and energy. The headset broadcast a welcoming signal, inviting him to join the network, and its host echoed the action, stretching out its hands to embrace him, assimilate him. Poor little green creature, ran the mechanical thoughts that flickered in the dead corridors of its mind, don't be afraid. You need never be lonely again.

The headset received an error message when it lost track of his visual signal. Where did - ?

There. To the right. He had moved so fast! Now to connect –

The side of the pilot's leather-gloved hand chopped the corpse's ear with a force that knocked it sideways. On a living human the burst eardrum would have caused tinnitus and excruciating pain. This victim no longer had the capacity to feel pain, but as his hand was deflected over its head the blue headset became dislodged and it fell, lifeless, a corpse in the usual non-ambulatory sense.

Pilot was now being approached from the front and behind. He planted his hand on the nearest cadaver's hunched shoulder and vaulted over it, pushing it forwards into the space where he had stood a moment before, making it collide heavily with the one behind him. He kicked out, arching gracefully in the air, the side of his foot driving into another one's throat so that he landed with his full weight on it and heard its neck snap. A few more well-placed punches and there were no opponents left standing in his immediate vicinity. He frowned, scraping his boot against a stone to clean it. Maybe Snippy would share some of his?

The sniper drove the stock of his rifle into a ragged face and brought the barrel down hard on a skull. He took a step to the side, lining up two approaching heads and dispatching them with a single shot, then turned to face a closer target and smashed its collarbone with the rifle stock. _How does he do that_, wondered the engineer, hovering behind him. _Why doesn't fear keep him from getting any closer to them than he can possibly help? Why doesn't it stop him from moving at all?_

Another gunshot reverberated through the air and the sniper shook himself free of his latest opponent which clutched at his waist, a gaping hole where one would normally expect its face to be. He waited for his hearing to be restored and then turned to shoot a scowl at the engineer.

"Do you think you could let go of my arm?"

The engineer looked down and realised he had been hanging onto the patched material of the marksman's sleeve. "Oh." He let go, sheepish, and took a few steps back. _Чёрт __возьми́__._ _That _was going to come back to haunt him later.

He should never have left the bunker.

It had all panned out with a kind of horrific inevitability. The Captain hailing them cheerfully. The moment of delay, of inaction, as if noise could be undone by silence. The slow, horribly slow, advance by the things at the end of the street. The realisation that the other end of the street was already blocked. The sight of them appearing all around. Drawing nearer. Closing in.

Thinking fast, the sniper had pointed to a more open space.

"Over there. No point hiding anymore and we don't want them to be able to surprise us. We're going to have to fight our way out." He turned to give them their individual instructions. "Pilot - you can move much faster than these things, just don't let yourself get surrounded."

The engineer couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for the way he took command of these situations. Until, at least -

"Gromov - " the sniper had looked him over, clearly despairing of him being any use in a combat capacity. "Just don't get separated from me." There it was. Until that.

_Upstart tour guide, _he muttered into his respirator.

In front of him, Snippy swung his rifle into another lifeless face and darted a resentful look at their fearless leader.

At least the Captain hadn't interfered with the sniper's directions. Normally he wouldn't tolerate such authority from anyone but himself, and it would be just like him to decide now was a good time for a handstand competition or something and then Pilot would be unable to defend himself, too busy following orders. Instead he had stood by with a lack of interest that seemed characteristic of his attitude to the situation as a whole. He had watched the battlefield with an air of approval for the first few minutes, whereupon, seemingly growing bored, he turned and began perusing the devastated shop fronts, looking for all the world like a Saturday morning window-shopper. He had moved along to a clothing shop and was blissfully admiring its wares when one of the horde, deflected by a kick from Snippy, lurched in his direction.

**Z****ombehs.**

**I'm not sure about the rating on this. There's violence but I don't think it's M-worthy, but then I wouldn't know. I suppose let me know if you think you've been scarred.**


	4. Risk Assessment

The sniper saw what was happening and cursed. "Captain, look out!" He moved to help but was confronted by another of the things. Pilot turned and saw what was happening; at once he rushed to defend the Captain but the arm he had just deflected latched onto his wrist and yanked him back, its owner and companions closing about him in a circle, reaching for him. Snippy swore again and delivered a backhanded blow into a dangling jaw, trying to keep an eye on both the Captain and Pilot while simultaneously keeping himself and the silent engineer clear of the clawing dead hands that surrounded them. He kicked out and heard a ribcage give way with a crack, then glanced back at the Captain.

The lumbering figure was close behind him now and he could surely see its reflection coming nearer in the remnants of glass in the shop window, but he appeared either unconcerned or oblivious and continued his scrutiny of the clothing displayed on rigidly nonchalant models; myriad shades and styles of white tops with black collars and shoulder panels, promising to "proudly display you, the wearer's individuality with a stylish G-Directorate logo!". He appeared to be haggling with a nearby skeleton.

It was almost upon him.

Snippy beat back another opponent and raised his rifle, but it was too late, too close. From this angle it was impossible to shoot one without hitting the other.

Negotiations with the skeleton had broken down; the Captain was now gesticulating angrily. He pounded his fist against the crumbling wall to make his point. Behind him, a holographic advertisement projector extending out over the street at a precarious angle bade its damaged moorings farewell and plummeted to the ground, coming down on the head of the corpse whose fingers were mere inches from the Captains' scarf-covered neck. Hearing the crash, he swivelled and glanced down at the broken and oozing body and then returned to his bartering.

Snippy was – relieved, he supposed, but also more than a little annoyed.

"Amazing. Of all the possible outcomes, the one to be realised is always the one most beneficial to him. It's like - like he's in control of the way a waveform collapses - assuming the Copenhagen interpretation - and not even consciously… Ah, if only I could run some simulations…" the spectacle seemed to have wrenched the engineer out of his mute state. He studied the Captain, eyes and attention turned away from the battle. He didn't see it come up behind him, didn't see it reach out.

"Gromov!"

He turned just in time to meet the towering form face to face. It held him like a vice, pinning his arms to his waist, and pulled him close.

_I didn't programme this,_ he thought as he was dragged forwards, _this isn't supposed to happen! How could I have known when I started work on ANNET that it would all go so wrong? I'm going to die – I'm going to die like everyone else, because of what I made – it wasn't supposed to end like this!_

"Aaaaaah!" was all he managed to articulate.

The thing had him against its chest now; it brought a hand up to its blinking headset. The engineer's eyes widened in horror before he closed them tight – thinking as he did so that he would never open them again. Not him. Not as he was.

_Please – someone, remember me without hating me_, he pled - then remembered that the last man on earth still in possession of his wits always had hated him, and always would.

_I'm sorry – I'm so sorry…_

* * *

><p><em><em>**Cliffhanger. Muahahahaha.**


	5. Recovery Operations

The grip on his arms lessened and he slumped to his knees. When a few seconds passed and the evidence seemed to suggest that he was still alive, he cautiously opened his eyes, only now registering a loud crack delayed for a few seconds by the buzzing in his ears.

It took several moments for the iridescent darkness obscuring his vision to resolve itself into a dim grey sky and the torn outlines of tower blocks and a striped hood above a pair of blue goggles that somehow looked angry. The undead thing which had been holding the engineer lay at his feet, the contents of its skull displayed messily across the street and dripping from the butt of his rifle. Now it was just dead.

"Pay attention! If you're not going to fight, you could at least _try_ not to get yourself killed."

The sniper turned and re-entered the fray. It was like looking after bloody children.

Pilot, however, was doing better than he had feared. A circle of corpses was littered about him, bowing to tradition in that they had stopped moving around. On seeing that his Captain was no longer in danger, a certain joy had returned to his movements. He used the knee of an advancing attacker as a step, audibly destroying its leg while giving himself the height to deliver a spinning kick that shattered a blinking headset and couldn't have been good for the head to which it was attached. The problems began when one of those still standing tried a different tack. Ceasing its attempts to get closer, to get its hand on him, it instead began doing something with its headset.

Pilot hesitated. He cocked his head as though he heard something. He continued the motion of his arm without looking, driving his elbow into an attacker's abdomen, causing it to double over, but his mind was no longer on the fight and he was soon caught and held by two others. This seemed to snap him back to reality, or whatever served as his equivalent, and he wriggled free of one of them, kicking it away, but there were more to replace it and he still seemed unfocussed, distracted.

The leader, as it now seemed, kept fiddling with its headset, adjusting it. It found Pilot's pocket and drew out a fragment of circuitry – flashing blue, like the device on its own head. As Pilot continued to struggle in its comrades' grasp it appeared to realise something. Turning stony eyes on the aviator it clenched the front of his jacket, the others releasing him as it did so. It shook him until he let his hands drop, dazed, and then it hurled him back into the side of a building.

Pilot slammed into the wall and crumpled to the ground. He didn't get up.

Snippy faltered for a moment. So far none of the things had actually tried to hurt any of them. They appeared more interested in trying to get a hold on their victims than delivering blows.

Not anymore.

The one which had thrown Pilot was approaching him slowly, a shadow lengthening over his motionless body. Snippy felt a surge of panic akin to what he had experienced when the engineer had been caught in the tall undead's hands and he thought he wouldn't get there soon enough; that jolt which had in turn brought back older memories, resurfacing like something nameless out of dark water, telling him that he knew how this ended.

He pushed forwards but another was in front of him, in his way, and now it took on the countenance of an animate enemy, maliciously blocking his path, keeping him helpless.

It was all happening again.

"_You can't help him,"_ the dead eyes seemed to say _"You can't help anyone."_

_Shut up._

"_You're going to watch him die and you won't be able to do a thing. Just like with all the others. You're going to lose him. And then you'll lose the Engineer -"_

_No!_

"_- and then your Captain." _

_NO!_

"_You'll lose everything you have and then you'll be alone again, forever. All alone…"_

He felt the fight go out of him as the words wrapped around his throat and squeezed, leeching him of strength. Their truth was a weapon, sapping his hope, reminding him that he was tired and aching and just one person and that nothing he did would make any difference anyway. That it never had.

_I tried, Pilot, truly I did,_ he thought, and then, feeling the engineer grasp his shoulder again, saying something he couldn't hear, _I tried, Alex. I did the best I could._

_I wish that were enough._

The hand on his shoulder was shaking him, urgent, and he leant into it, ready to drop. It was over. Might as well give up.

Suddenly the Captain was behind the one impending on Pilot. He rapped its skull smartly with his mug. As it turned to face him he delivered a sideways blow to its torso, using his fist like a hammer; it stumbled away and promptly tripped over a pile of rubble, skewering itself neatly on a rusty pipe which jutted out of the ground, seemingly left there for that purpose. Captain picked Pilot up and marched past them. "Snippy, Engie. Deal with zee guests."

The two shared a glance.

Snippy smashed his fist into the face of his erstwhile tormentor, once again no more than the shambling husk of a man.

There were only a few left now, advancing in a circle. It was time to finish this.

"All right. Stay close, Gromov." The engineer moved up till they were standing back-to-back, scanning their opponents, judging distances. "Check your five, six, then eight o'clock. When you're ready," he offered.

Snippy raised his rifle.


	6. Repairable Item

It didn't them take long to finish of the remnants of the horde. Somehow it no longer felt like the most pressing issue. They caught up with the Captain just outside their headquarters having sprinted most of the way, the engineer huffing to keep up, while he had kept up a steady march. Pilot still wasn't moving.

Captain laid him on a dilapidated sofa. Then he left.

The engineer unfastened the leather straps and drew back his hood. His eyes were closed, roaming restlessly under pale lids. Snippy chose to take that as a good sign. There were a few bruises around his jaw where a hand had gripped it, but the real damage would be on the back of his head where it had made contact with the wall. Carefully, they shifted him onto his side.

Snippy turned away. He despised himself for his weakness but he couldn't bring himself to look back at the wound. He felt sick enough thinking of the way Pilot had fallen, crumpling like tinfoil, or the way his arm dangled and his head hung back when Captain picked him up like a doll. And now this…

_There's blood – blood in his hair –_

"I don't think it's as bad as it looks." The engineer sounded calm, if serious.

The sniper turned back, forcing himself to look.

"I know what you're thinking. There's a lot of blood. But head wounds are renowned for bleeding profusely. There's a high concentration of blood vessels in the scalp."

_Please stop saying "blood"._

"And it looks particularly bad given his colouring, but that's just a case of contrast."

Snippy didn't think he would ever forget the sight of sandy locks drenched in scarlet.

"I need to clean this up to get a clear look." He thought for a moment, then directed Snippy to fetch the latest box he had brought from his bunker. He took out a tin flask of water and a bottle of vodka.

"It's probably for the best he's not conscious right now, because this is going to sting like a bitch." The engineer got to work, dabbing gently at the gore, gradually cleaning the golden strands. Snippy calmed down a little as the red patch receded.

It still didn't look great.

An ugly gash cut across the base of his skull and stretched to his right ear. The engineer frowned, thinking. Finally he looked up at the sniper.

"I need you to go to that chemist's we found a few weeks ago." He was referring to a relatively intact pharmacy only a few blocks away. They had noted that it had low levels of radiation and a lot of surviving stock, but nothing useful. Hair removal products and fragrances became less important after you had survived the apocalypse. "Do you remember the way?"

"Yeah, but… why? They didn't have any first aid kits. We checked, remember?"

"I know. That's not what I'm looking for."

He ran most of the way there, not taking the usual precautions about making noise or keeping near cover. He could only focus on his destination, his objective – and the hope that Gromov knew what he was doing.

He was back soon, afraid that while he was gone – but no, the pilot's chest was still rising and falling lightly when he burst back into the room. Gromov took what he had asked for and thanked him in a low voice. The engineer's calm and business-like demeanour was freaking him out almost more than anything else. He thought longingly of better times past - just that morning they had been snapping insults at each other. They could afford to.

As he watched the engineer prepare his tools he recalled the conversation they had had not long before. Gromov's idea.

"He needs stitches."

Snippy's heart had sunk as he realised what that would entail. "Can you do it?"

"I'm familiar with the theory." A glimmer of the old arrogance, a hint of sarcasm?

Snippy chose to take that as a good sign.

"But – what do we use?"

"Dental floss."

"Dental floss?"

"Yes. Hence the chemist's."

"Dental floss."

"Please stop doing that." Gromov sighed. "Look, unless you've found any fully stocked, radiation-free medical supplies you neglected to mention, it's the best we've got. It's strong, flexible, and the coating means it's not absorbent like thread – that means it can't draw moisture or bacteria into the wound."

Snippy glanced at the crimson wedge, then quickly away. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "That wound isn't going to heal cleanly by itself and that increases the risk of infection. When this much flesh is exposed -"

"OK," the sniper hurriedly grabbed his rifle. "I won't be long."

"Good," said the engineer, reaching for his toolkit.

By the time he returned Gromov had laid out his selection of tools, and was disinfecting them with a flame and more vodka. The sniper had always imagined the kit to contain spanners and screwdrivers, the kind of tools engineers carry in cartoons. He realised now how stupid this was, not only because of the kit's small size but knowing this engineer's area of expertise. The tools were delicate, slender, possessing a kind of beauty in their functionality; designed for the intricacies of electronics and computer hardware. Gromov picked one out and snapped off a small section to serve as a needle.

"Can you fix that?" asked the sniper, because underneath his concentration there had been a sadness to the breaking. The engineer half smiled.

"I suppose I don't really need it anymore. I'm not going to be working with state-of-the-art electronics again." He glanced up and smiled a second time, but couldn't keep the bitterness away. "Probably a good thing for anyone left alive, right?"

Snippy couldn't bring himself to answer.

The engineer threaded the needle, holding steady hands up to the dim light filtering through the window. He knotted the thread and directed Snippy to push the hair back out of the way. The sniper had been trying to think of an excuse to leave without letting Gromov know he was feeling nauseated but in the end settled for looking away. After a while he looked back, curious. It wasn't so bad – reassuring, in fact, to see the deft strokes, the skin being drawn back together by neat sutures and the glistening flesh concealed once more, even if he couldn't help wincing a little as the needle went in.

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><p><strong>So it turns out I killed off the zombies too soon. Please enjoy this exciting chapter on the topic of improvised surgery.<strong>


	7. Reintegration

**And now for some thrilling exposition. This is far too emotional for my liking... luckily Temarcia requested emotional so I can blame it on her. **

**Not as polished up as I would have liked but I wanted to post something else before I left because you're just such lovely people. See you in a week.**

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><p>The engineer reached the end of the wound and knotted the thread. He appraised his work. He was no surgeon, but it looked… satisfactory. He could feel as he worked with the stuff that it would hold, at least as long as nothing interfered with it. He sighed as he remembered just whose cranial laceration the sutures were sealing. <em>We should make him a cone, <em>he thought, _otherwise he'll scratch them like a dog._

He looked up to where the sniper still stood and motioned him to sit down. He did so gratefully, the option apparently not having occurred to him.

"Are you OK?"

The sniper looked at him sharply, searching for an edge in his voice, evidently expecting some jab.

"It's not that uncommon to be bothered by blood. Part of the vasovagal response. It's a biological mechanism, supposed to help you if you're the one who's been injured."

There was no reply. He still looked distrustful.

"Look," Alexander sighed, "I'm just trying to make sure you're all right. Blunt force isn't the only kind of trauma. And if there's one thing I learned today, it's that I want you around and serviceable if something like that ever happens again."

"I'm fine." His voice came out hoarse and he cleared his throat before repeating himself. "I'm fine."

"Only– back there, when he first got hurt, you sort of -"

"I just… I got scared." He ducked his head, awaiting ridicule. _Why would you admit something like that? And to Gromov, of all people?_ He had hoped the engineer hadn't noticed him freezing up, or at least, if he had, that it wouldn't come up.

But the doctor just watched him thoughtfully. "I can understand that."

"I wonder what happened, anyway," Snippy blurted after a few seconds, keen to change the subject. "What were they trying to do to him?"

The engineer sighed. He had rather hoped _this_ wouldn't come up.

"They wanted to connect him to the network. It's part of the programming I incorporated into the headsets; they would automatically search for any others nearby and try to connect. It was to help spread the network and speed up communications; the headsets themselves were not only receivers but could relay the signal themselves. When they tried to connect to him his old headset responded -" he broke off for a moment. "I'm not sure why he still carries it around. Anyway, it reacted in some way, a way that he could perceive and that got his attention. But when they went to _connect_ with him -" he trailed off again, studying the unconscious pilot. Finally he continued, "I don't really know what happened to Hatchenson. He's – well, you know what he's like. It's impossible to get any sense out of him. But from what I can gather his headset broke before the whole - end of the world… thing - and a lot of his long term memory went with it. Perhaps his mind is just too erratic to be part of a network now – it would be like trying to conduct electricity through a broken circuit. Certainly his headset was broken. So for whatever reason they realised they couldn't connect him and, based on all the casualties he had caused so far, that he was a threat. And they decided to eliminate him, I suppose. I imagine they would have done the same to you if you'd let any get close enough to realise that you and the network don't gel."

Was that a hint of admiration? From Gromov? No. He was tired, he was just confusing things.

"But that's what I don't get. You and Captain and I, we don't have headsets anymore. I never had one." He hesitated, wondering if the Captain had ever had one. He had all but given up on trying to figure out the Captain's past. "How were they planning to connect to us?"

The engineer removed his mask and pushed back his hair. He _really_ didn't want to think about the answer to this question. "You have to bear in mind that towards the end the physical headsets were almost unnecessary. The signal was being broadcast at the same frequency as our brainwaves themselves. It's what was keeping those things going, after all, even after biological death – the headset was standing in for a transmission tower and so long as it was active so was the brain, to a limited degree. Their headsets were already detecting our neural activity – which would spike, I imagine, when you suddenly, say, start thinking about particle physics and simulations when everyone else is concentrating on fighting for their lives – and one of them could have reset itself to actually patch a new brain into the network. It's just that if the brain in question were resisting then it would have to override - i.e. turn off - the higher functions to do it."

The sniper took a moment to take this in. Then he wished he hadn't "Oh – Oh _god._ You mean, when you were – it was going to -"

"It was going to turn me into one of them." Alexander nodded, projecting a composition he did not feel. "Functionally brain-dead. But still walking around."

"That's _horrible._"

"Yes."

The engineer began tearing off a strip of fabric from one of the unused uniforms in the supplies box. When he was choosing what to bring he had reasoned that they could use a change of clothes at some point; now he planned to fashion a dressing for Pilot.

"So, you know. Thanks,"

"Any time," said the sniper with feeling. Neither of them could muster the energy to for their usual grudging awkwardness.

"So now what?" he asked eventually, looking to where Pilot lay, breathing steadily.

The engineer shrugged. "We wait and see."


	8. Returned to Unit

**It's been a while. I lost steam with this a little due to other things going on IRL, but now I'm free to get it finished. Thank you for your patience.**

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><p>It was a peaceful flight; there were no sounds but the hum of the aircraft and the static of the radio. Around and below him a vista of clouds stretched to the horizon, tinged pink and honey-gold by the sinking sun. He checked his compass and adjusted his heading slightly; a headwind was picking up. The radio began to crackle as a transmission came through. He registered the identity of the caller before switching it off, cutting the message short.<p>

The wind was strengthening now and he felt some resistance as he further adjusted his course, gusts driving at the wing slats. The plane juddered, rattling the control panel and dislodging a piece of paper tucked between the columns of dials; he tucked it into the pocket inside his jacket and settled more firmly into his seat, altering the display, adjusting settings.

The sky was darkening.

There were storm clouds up ahead.

Now he was in the dark corridors of his prison, running for the exit. The lawyers were close behind him – he could hear them calling him, telling him to stop. There were more ahead of him, blocking the way out, but he fought his way through because there was something he had to do – someone was in danger? Someone important… He wasn't certain. He felt confused, as though this had already happened but not quite the same. The voices were back, louder than ever, whispering to him – he should ignore them, but they were so insistent… the lawyers were closing in…then the voices stopped, everything stopped, and his vision went black.

The darkness was oppressive but for a time he could hear things. There were more voices, only two of them now, low, serious. He felt a dull, steady pain at the back of his head which burst into a violent crescendo at the touch of a hand; the voices faded away again and he knew nothing.

He could not have said how much time passed before he woke. The shadows slanting across the room could have been those of dawn or dusk. He turned his head and felt a twinge behind his ear; when he reached up to investigate a hand caught his and pulled it firmly away.

"Oh no you don't," said a voice, tinged with a Russian accent.

Pilot twisted his head the other way to locate the speaker. "Engie?"

"Welcome back." The engineer was seated on an overturned crate beside the couch, a scorched book in his hand.

Pilot tried to remember what had happened and where he was. One thing was uppermost on his mind.

"My head hurts."

The engineer closed his book. "I know. You came into rather sudden contact with a brick wall. You needed stitches."

"Stitches?" Pilot was intrigued. "Like Mr Kittyhawk has?"

The engineer contemplated denying any likeness between medical sutures and a soft toy before giving in with a heavy sigh. "Sure. Like Mr Kittyhawk. Why not."

"OK," said Pilot happily. He reached up to examine his new needlework but the engineer stopped him again.

"Don't touch them," he said irritably.

"Why not?"

"You might break them, you half-wit."

"I won't break them. Anyway, if they get broken you can sew them up again. Like with Mr Kittyhawk."

The engineer stared at him, incredulous. What could you say to that?

"Pilot," he said eventually, in a sombre tone. "If you break your stitches, your _skull_ will fall out."

Pilot didn't like the sound of that.

"And unlike that bird" he continued, "I can't just fix you by stuffing some cotton wool into your head." He paused to reflect on this. "Actually, come to think of it, I doubt anyone would notice a difference if I did. But I've sewn you up once and I never want to have to do it again. So -" he leant forward, moving his mask close to Pilot's face "Don't. Touch. The _чертовский_. Stitches."

Pilot nodded fervently. He winced as the pain returned, the wound protesting at his sudden movement.

"Don't do that either," Engie said with annoyance. "Just lie still."

Moving tentatively, Pilot sank back onto the couch. He closed his eyes and the remnants of his tangled dreams drifted back to him.

He remembered with a start.

"Captain!"

"What?" asked Engie, alarmed by the outburst.

"Captain's in trouble! Those tiara monsters were attacking him – I have to help -" he tried to swing his legs onto the ground but the engineer pushed him back.

"Captain's fine. You saw him, remember?" Unconsciously he touched his arm. Under his sleeve a ring of finger-shaped bruises marked his skin. "It's the rest of us who were having problems."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Out there somewhere." He pointed to the window overlooking the devastated city.

"Is Snippy with him?"

The engineer groaned at the anxiety in his voice. "No, he isn't."

Pilot eyed him suspiciously. He would obviously need better evidence that the sniper was not at this very moment trying to steal their leader's affections. He turned to the door and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Charles!"

There was the sound of rapid footsteps and the sniper appeared at the door.

"What's wrong?" His eyes went immediately to Pilot. "He's awake!"

"That was quick." Engie sounded amused.

"Oh, I was -" he gestured ambiguously. "I just got back – from -"

"From pacing up and down the corridor? What perfect timing." The engineer stood. "It's your turn to babysit."

"OK…"

Engie brushed past him, having no desire to debate the issue.

Snippy sat down. Pilot was watching him narrowly. He drummed his fingers on his knees, not quite sure what to do.

"So… how do you feel?" he queried.

"I am in optimal condition," said Pilot rather stiffly.

Snippy looked over his injuries, which pointed to the contrary. A twisted ankle and some extraneous bruising, unnoticed in the initial alarm over his head wound, had been patched up by the engineer in the same makeshift way. He nodded, humouring him. "Oh, definitely."

Pilot wasn't listening. "So don't get any ideas, Mr Snippy," he continued. "I know you want Captain all to yourself -" he had to raise his voice here to drown out Snippy's expressions of dissent – "but you're not getting rid of me that easily."

_Good,_ a part of him thought, but the rest of him was busy vocally insisting that he had no intention of trying to usurp the position of trust which Pilot apparently believed himself to hold. The argument culminated the way it always did, with a volley of Pilot's outlandish and imaginative invective and threats of physical harm.

Overall, Snippy thought, trying to prevent the pilot from delivering a kick with his injured leg which would undoubtedly hurt him more than it would Snippy, it was a lot easier to feel sorry for him when he was unconscious.


	9. Result

**And here's the grand finale. ****I can't tell if the last part is sort of sweet or really creepy. You decide. **

**Finally something from Captain's perspective, which I'm terrible at writing. I'm always concerned about making him too nice, but I think I've just about managed to avoid that. **

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><p>Snippy reached the top of the mound of scraps and scanned the street. He was looking for the Captain, who had been unusually absent from his minions' lives. Snippy had seen him a few times when he was out looking for supplies, but he didn't seem to want to talk. He was just wandering the city, sometimes carrying pieces of the debris that covered the streets. Today Snippy scoured the streets till he found him, and followed him.<p>

He stopped when he got to some larger piles of rubble and added the dented oil can he was carrying. Snippy realised that these piles were not simply left over from the strike, but had been put there – apparently the Captain had spent the last few days moving scrap metal from one place to another.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Mr Snippy?" he replied abstractedly, adjusting a piece of wreckage.

"What are you doing?"

"Ah, I am glad you asked. It occurred to me during our recent battle with zee cyber-zombies zat we are insufficiently defended from monstrous life-forms."

"Huh. That's… surprisingly lucid of you."

"So as you can see, I am building a fort." He stretched out his arms to encompass the barricades of junk he had amassed.

Snippy's impressed feeling vanished as quickly as it had come. "This is a fort?"

"Is zat not obvious?"

"Captain, we don't _live_ here."

"Not yet, Mr Snippy." The Captain was looking at him like he was the one being stupid. "We will move in when zee fortifications are complete."

"In there," said Snippy flatly.

"Why not?"

Snippy stared at the abandoned underground station which the scrapheaps encircled. He had been into the tunnels of the old underground only once, and to this day couldn't really believe his luck in getting out alive. The monsters that lurked down there were on a whole other level. Literally.

"You don't see a possible hole in the defences of this place? A building which links the surface to a maze of subterranean passageways, home to god-knows-what?" he asked, hinting heavily.

The Captain thought for a moment. "Hmm, I see what you mean." He looked up at the sky. "It is rather exposed to aerial assault."

Snippy resisted the urge to facepalm. At this rate he was going to do permanent damage to his forehead.

He decided to just get to the point. "Are you going to come and see Pilot? You haven't been back to base in days and he can't exactly follow you around at the moment. Not that he doesn't try."

"Yes, where is Pilot?" the Captain asked, apparently only just reminded of his existence. "Why has he not been helping me with zee fort?" he demanded, sounding rather put out.

Snippy gritted his teeth. "He got hurt, remember?"

Based on his blank look, the Captain did not see this as a valid reason for failing to help him build his scrap-fort. After the length of time they had been travelling together Snippy knew it was futile to get angry, but the sheer egotism of the man still had the capacity to make him boil over.

"He could have died! Gromov had to sew his head shut with dental floss and all because _you_ showed up and blew our cover! All he thinks about is trying to please you, and you don't even care if he lives or dies!"

"Mr Snippy! Do not say such things!" The Captain brought his hands to his heart in a melodramatic bid to appear wounded. "I care deeply for zee welfare of all my minions."

"No you don't," Snippy muttered, but in his heart he couldn't be entirely sure this was true. The Captain had turned up more than once when he himself had been in jeopardy and the upshot had always been that he survived, no matter how incidental it might seem to the Captain's havoc-wreaking insanity. After all, he would currently be in several jars in an alien laboratory if it hadn't been for the Captain's timely intervention, even if he did insist he had left Snippy there as "collateral"… and Pilot certainly wouldn't have made it without him.

"I would not be zee marvellous Captain I am without minions to Captain over, now would I, Snippy?" the Captain asked triumphantly, evidently seeing this as a winning argument.

"That's so far from what I meant it's not true." Snippy sighed. "Just come and talk to him, OK?"

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><p>As they approached the doorway to the infirmary Snippy could hear raised voices and some disconcerting crashes from within. Pilot was presumably making another break for freedom.<p>

The view that met them was more or less what he had pictured. The engineer was lying on the floor, held in place by Pilot's good foot while the aviator expounded loudly on the subject of some manner of conspiracy concocted by him and Snippy.

"You're looking better," Snippy commented. Pilot turned and brightened when he saw who was behind him.

"Captain!"

While he was distracted, Snippy took the opportunity to extricate the engineer from underneath him.

"Well, it's nice to know my parents were wrong; I would not have had a better time of it if I had gone into medicine," he remarked as Snippy helped him up.

"Yeah, sorry for leaving you with him. I thought it was _his_ turn to deal with him for a while."

They looked at their companions. Pilot and Captain were having a spirited discussion of the merits of a fortified base, this apparently being the best idea Pilot had ever heard.

In unspoken unison, the sniper and the engineer quietly edged out of the room. On leaving the building they broke into a run and didn't stop until they were far away, in a different quarter of the city. They passed a pleasant afternoon sniping mutants from the top of a tower block.

And they barely argued at all, until Snippy raised the subject of the engineer losing a fight to an invalid.

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><p>In a little over a week Pilot's ankle was on the mend and the stiches were ready to come out. The engineer muttered darkly about how this would be much easier if they knocked him out again, but had to settle for Snippy doing his best to hold him still.<p>

"This would be much easier if you helped. You could order him to stop wriggling."

The Captain sucked his straw urbanely. "Wriggling is a form of self-expression, Engie. Who am I to crush such a passionate spirit?"

They were standing on the balcony of the base, a balcony which may not have been originally conceived as such but which, being a room with no roof and half a wall, served the purpose. The engineer had ordered a respite from surgery with only half of the sutures removed in order to try and enlist the Captain's help and let the sniper nurse his black eye.

"This is for his own good. You got him out of there safely, you can't pretend you don't care. Why not help him a little more?"

"I think I will leave zee medical matters to those better qualified."

"I hope you aren't referring to me. I keep telling you, I'm not a damn medic."

"Really? Zen tell me Engie, who was it who sewed mein Pilot up so neatly?"

The engineer growled in frustration and stamped back inside.

Captain drank his tea, peaceably ignoring the mingled yells coming from the operating theatre. He leant over the wall, thinking back to another time he had carried Pilot like that… out of the wreckage of a burning plane, the screaming voices that issued from the communications panel fading away behind him, becoming quieter both with distance and with loss of numbers. Unimportant. The aviator muttered and sighed but did not wake. There was burning all around, flames licking up the towers, eating up the city, but the path before him was diamond-clear. It always was.

Content with the completion of another successful mission, he smiled down at the man cradled in his arms. Now he had a minion of his own, a faithful companion to serve him and aid him in his rule over the new kingdom. His injuries would mend and he would take his place beside his Captain with the obedience he had already demonstrated so agreeably. Christophorus Hatchenson… a good subordinate, but he would need a name that was a little more - snappy. That was it! Snappy! No, wait… Captain pondered, and then shook his head decisively. That was a stupid name. How about… Pilot. At once, he walked with renewed vigour, grinning under his mask. It was short, descriptive and to the point. Perfect. "Pilot." he tested the name, uttering it aloud for the first time, and as if in response his new underling opened his brilliant green eyes.

He gave a low murmur, trying to get his voice back. "Captain?"

"Yes, Pilot?"

"The – the plane – the mission… did we crash?"

"Not to worry, Pilot! All is well. We finished the mission." He came to a halt after emerging from a covered walkway onto a bridge which offered a panoramic view of the burning city. What a glorious night! The polluted sky reflected the angry red glow; it was like a bonfire, like fireworks, like a birthday party.

The Captain set Pilot down against some railings, making sure he could admire the view. He turned to the burning city and took in a deep breath through his respirator, spreading his arms wide.

"We're home."

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading.<strong>

**LL**


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